


but the dart between my heart and his

by OfShoesAndShips



Series: those of us who are lost and low [2]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst with a little fragile fluff at the end, Aromantic Character, Asexual Characters, Depression, Disabled Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/pseuds/OfShoesAndShips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All four parts of the so-called Laura Marling Sequence, the first three of which also appear in my JSMN Prompt Fics thing. Separating them for neatness.</p><p>In which there is aroflux-ness, depression, and mentions of a previous suicide attempt. Childermass also has cerebral palsy + an eating disorder, but those only get a passing mention in part one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i'm thinking i was wrong

He wakes slowly, a gentle slip from fast asleep to half-awake, feeling heavy and exhausted still, and turns over, unwilling to push back the covers and succumb to the daylight.

 

He presses back down into the pillows, and doesn’t notice Norrell is wide awake and gazing at him until he’s already made a fool of himself. Norrell doesn’t seem to think so, though; his gaze is soft and he is smiling slightly.

 

“Good morning, John,” he whispers.

 

“Oh, don’t remind me,” Childermass mumbles into the pillow, wincing at how terribly strained his voice sounds. He closes his eyes and breathes, feeling brittle and hating himself for it. He isn’t supposed to be feeling like this, now. It doesn’t make sense - and yet -;

 

Norrell lays gentle fingers against the edge of his jaw, and Childermass flinches, opening his eyes. He doesn’t apologise, though the words come and catch in his throat. Norrell has pulled his hand back, but doesn’t look offended.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks, very softly, and Childermass attempts to shrug. One true word could break this, he thinks, and for a second that is all he wants to do; shatter this strange, too-delicate thing between them and go back to how they were before - or further, even, back to only carrying the weight of his own existence, as impossible as it had been.

 

He tastes riverwater in the back of his throat and buries his face in the crook of his elbow upraised on the pillow, breathing carefully through the urge to cry.

 

Norrell doesn’t attempt to touch him again, doesn’t say anything; Childermass feels him get out of bed, hears the soft sounds of him beginning to dress.

 

“Shall I tell them you’re ill?” Norrell asks, in a voice that doesn’t brim with pity - but there is gentleness in it, tenderness, and even that makes Childermass feel sick.

 

It is a moment before Childermass drags himself back together enough to speak above a whisper.

 

“I’ve been through worse,” he says.

 

“I know. That is not what I asked.”

 

They are back to combativeness, or something like it, and his breath comes a little easier.

 

“No,” he says, and slowly rolls over, pushing back the covers and swinging his feet onto the floor. The movement sends him dizzy and he clenches his fists around the edge of the mattress before slowly pushing himself up to his feet.

 

The chair across which his clothes are folded is only two steps away; and yet, halfway there his ankle buckles without warning, send him staggering into the dresser.

 

“John?” Norrell sounds alarmed and Childermass shakes his head, even though Norrell probably can’t see him doing it. He leans against the dresser, laughing almost hysterically.

 

“It’s not my day, today, is it?” he says, more to himself than to Norrell.

 

“Go back to bed,” Norrell says, “I’ll tell Hannah to bring you some breakfast-;”

 

“I’m not hungry,” he says, carefully putting his weight back on his just-buckled ankle and wincing at how weak it feels. He drags his feet as he walks back to bed, and sits back down so heavily that the bed creaks in protest.

 

“But you didn’t eat last night.”

 

“Wasn’t hungry then, either,” he says, and Norrell’s sigh hurts.

 

“John-;”

 

“Fine,” Childermass snaps, burying himself back under the covers, “Go. Do as you think best.”

 

There is no sound, for a moment, except for their breathing - and then the key turns, unlocking the door, and a moment later the door closes behind Norrell with a heavy, final click.


	2. if i look back and he is screaming

It is not the first time.

 

There have been nights when he is woken by Childermass thrashing and beating the pillow in his sleep, screaming his throat raw; nights where Norrell has to wake him with his name barked out as sharp as he can muster, nights where Childermass stares at him with wild eyes and, shaking, allows himself to be held.

 

There have been nights where Childermass cannot help but touch him, gentle fingers on his cheek, a hand lacing with his, a kiss pressed to his shoulder. Nights where Norrell cannot help but touch him in return; stroking his palm across Childermass’s tattoos, his scars, falling asleep with one hand pressed to Childermass’s waist - the smallest of things, Norrell supposes, but he has long realised that he needed little else.

 

And then there are the nights between. Nights when Childermass seems off-kilter, when his hands shake and his voice is barely audible. They do not touch so much, those nights, and Childermass’s nightmares are more the quiet kind. Nights when they sleep alone.

 

Childermass had warned him, of course. But knowing in abstract is rather different to waking up to him looking terrified, to reaching to soothe him and having him flinch away.

 

Seeing him walking into the library, his eyes reddenned and his voice scratchy - hearing from James that his fall into the river had not been accidental as it seemed - was entirely different from hearing his heaving breaths, seeing his shoulders shake under the sheets. Being told there was nothing he could do was nothing to the awful uselessness he felt, standing there and trying not to watch.

 

\-----

 

Norrell opens the door and slips into the room as quietly as he can. The mid-afternoon sun eases its way in through a gap in the curtains, shining a thin line across the rug but leaving the bed in almost-darkness. An untouched tea-tray sits on the dresser, the toast and tea long cold. Norrell pauses near the foot of the bed - Childermass sleeps quietly for once, and Norrell would be discomfited did he not suspect it was the sleep of the exhausted. He looks so small under the coverlet, curled in on himself, one hand tucked under his neck and the other slightly stretched out. Norrell goes to the dresser and takes the teatray, putting it outside the door for one of the maids to pick up later, and comes back in to see Childermass hasn’t even stirred.

 

He steps closer, and finds himself reminded of the few long moments before Childermass woke that morning, the soft look sleep gave him, the tangle of hair fallen across his forehead. Without thinking, Norrell reaches down and traces his fingers over the lines in Childermass’s outstretched hand.

 

“Mm?” Childermass blinks bleary eyes and makes a soft noise, turning half-over to look at him.

 

Norrell pulls his hand away, feeling embarrassed, frozen.

 

“Time s’it?”

 

“Almost five,” Norrell says, too loud in the space and Childermass winces almost imperceptibly.

 

“Why’d you let me sleep so late?” he asks, sounding suddenly awake, and he struggles to sit up, getting himself tangled in the sheets.

 

“You seemed to need it.”

 

Childermass doesn’t appear to have heard him, disentangling himself and swinging out of bed; Norrell backs away a step automatically to give him room.

 

“Careful-;” Norrell starts.

 

“I don’t need bloody minding,” Childermass pulls off his nightshirt and dresses hurriedly, his hands moving just quickly enough to betray his tension.

 

“I’m not. You’re no use to anyone if your leg gives out-;” A second too late, Norrell realises what it is he’s said, just as Childermass’s mouth tilts in something vaguely related to a smile.

 

“I’m no use to anyone anyway,” he says, half under his breath.

 

“John-;”

 

Childermass casts him a horribly sharp look, balancing against the chair to get his shoes on. “Don’t.”

 

Norrell can only stand there as Childermass stalks out and slams the door behind him.


	3. let the river answer

He comes back shaking, sodden from the rain still bucketing it down outside, and comes into the library at well past midnight with his hair still plastered to his face. Norrell looks up sharply from _The Language of Birds_ and stares at him for a second.

 

“Childermass,” he says, beginning to stand up, and Childermass turns away, walking stiffly over to the fire and tugging his coat off. Under it, he has on only his shirt, and it clings to his skin with rain and sweat. He tosses the coat onto one of the chairs by the fire and sits on the footstool, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. He says nothing. He doesn’t even move. 

 

“Where did you go?”

 

Childermass clears his throat. “Went for a walk.”

 

“You’ve been gone hours.”

 

“You don’t say.”

 

“You terrified Hannah. She was convinced–”

 

“That I was going to throw myself of’t bridge again?” He spits it like a challenge and Norrell flinches.

 

“Yes.”

 

Childermass didn’t say anything, and something catches in Norrell’s chest. “You didn’t–”

 

“Do I look dead?”

 

“Did you consider it?”

 

“I _consider_ it–” his voice cracks, and he doesn’t finish the sentence. Norrell stands up, then, coming out from behind his desk to sit by one of the chairs beside the fire. He folds Childermass’s coat and hangs it over one arm of the chair before sitting down.

 

“John,” he whispers, and Childermass’s head drops forward, his shoulders hunching.

 

“Sorry,” he says, very quietly, and Norrell reaches out to run his knuckles along Childermass’s shoulder.

 

Childermass reaches up and catches his hand, not pushing him away but not pulling him closer either. He just clings to Norrell’s hand, and carries on staring into the fire.

 

“Sorry,” he says again, his voice hoarse.

 

“What for?”

 

“I’m making a right hash of this,” he says, with a little bitter laughter in his voice.

 

“No,” Norrell says, “No.”

 

“I just went down to the village,” he says, “Sat in the King’s for a while. Ran into Lucy’s da and had a pint with him. The man could talk the hind legs off a donkey,” he adds, and Norrell smiles.

 

“So can Lucy,” he says, and Childermass laughs, sounding a little startled.

 

“I was just– I needed air,” he says, and Norrell nods.

 

“Did it…change anything?”

 

Childermass sighs and turns to look at him, then, tucking his hair behind his ear with his free hand. “Why have you not got rid of me? I– I am not–”

 

“You are not _lesser_ for all this. I spoke hastily, earlier. I did not mean it.”

 

“I know.”

 

Norrell turns his hand in Childermass’s and clings back.

 

“I would keep you safe, if I could,” Norrell says, almost choking on the words. As it is they are quiet, very nearly too quiet, but Childermass closes his eyes and draws in a slow breath.

 

“I would let you,” he says, “If I could.”


	4. i will try and take it slow

 

He feels ill - his head pounds, his stomach roils, and there is a chill just below his skin that no amount of blankets can shake.

 

He considers getting up and going back to the library, but decides against it almost immediately. For one, it will be cold in there by now; for another, he’s in no mood to move. He thinks, just for a moment, of John - he is now always _John_ in the privacy of Norrell’s head - curled on his narrow bed upstairs, wonders if he is awake or asleep, tries to imagine the thoughts running through his head.

 

After a moment, he realises that that way leads places he cannot bear to consider. He rolls over, cocooning himself in the sheets, and tries not to think on it any further. He focuses on his breath, deep and slow, telling himself it’ll help.

 

The door opens, easing quietly over the rug with just the slightest whisper, and in the faint threads of moonlight he can see John’s dark silhouette.

 

“John?”

 

There is no answer, but a pause and then a breath, as if he had been about to say something and decided against it. He closes the door as quietly as he can and slips across the room; Norrell does not turn to watch him, but he can hear the soft sounds of John undressing and folding his clothes.

 

The covers rise and the mattress dips. The bed is too big, really, for him to feel the warmth of John’s skin from where he is; but he fancies that he can anyway.

 

“How are you feeling?” he whispers, hoping he was right to speak - sometimes it helps and sometimes the opposite. There doesn’t seem to be any pattern to it.

 

“A little better,” John says, though his voice is still slightly rougher than usual.

 

“Good.”

 

For a moment, all he can hear is their breathing and the slow, light patter of the rain beginning again outside.

 

“Don’t-;” John starts, suddenly, and then he stops.

 

Norrell rolls over, though it hardly helps; in the darkness all he can see is the space where John is, and nought else.

 

“Don’t what?”

 

“It doesn’t matter.”

 

“John?”

 

“I promise it doesn’t matter.”

 

Norrell reaches out, and without quite knowing how he manages it in the dark, runs his fingers across the edge of John’s jaw. Stubble rasps against his fingertips, and a few strands of John’s hair fall across the back of his hand. He reaches John’s chin and drops his hand away to land on the pillow.

 

John breathes out, carefully, as if forcing himself to. He reaches up and catches Norrell’s hand in his own, twining their fingers together.

 

“I’m sorry,” John starts, again, and Norrell squeezes his hand, just slightly.

 

“Don’t,” he says, and the very barest huff of laughter escapes John’s throat, “Just go to sleep, John.”

 

And so John does.


End file.
